


apitoxin

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, basically sad tubbo angst set before the manberg festival, sorry if this is illegible half of it was done while very sleep deprived, tw non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: so when an animal comes to disrupt it, the honeybeecansting. itcanretaliate. itcanrelease all the melittin and mast cell degranulating peptides it wants into the animal’s skin. but it’ll die doing so. plain and simple.he trails a hand down the side of your face, and you consider your options.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 71
Collections: Anonymous





	apitoxin

**Author's Note:**

> not an x reader i just like writing in second person! (i feel like it gets you more into the character’s head idk) anyways enjoy

you knew a lot about bees. honeybees, specifically. their behavior, ecology, physiology. it had all been very fascinating to you for as long as you could remember. long before _he_ had become president, anyways. 

composed of a dorsal stylet and two barbed slides on either side, the honeybee’s stinger is able to inject anywhere from five to fifty milligrams of apitoxin into the tissue it penetrates. when a honeybee stings an animal, it’s stinger becomes lodged about 1.5 millimeters into the skin. that may not be very deep to the animal, but it’s a substantial intrusion for the bee, who’s only 15 millimeters in length itself. so substantial, in fact, that the honeybee is unable to remove its stinger without rupturing its digestive tract and muscle tissue. the force from the tear would be lethal. it’s effectively stuck. 

so when an animal comes to disrupt it, the honeybee _can_ sting. it _can_ retaliate. it _can_ release all the melittin and mast cell degranulating peptides it wants into the animal’s skin. but it’ll die doing so. plain and simple. 

he trails a hand down the side of your face, and you consider your options. but only momentarily. his voice pulls you out of any deep thought you could get lost in, instead submerging you in the disorienting muck of the present situation.

“look at me, tubbo.”

and you do. of course you do. his grin widens.

“‘atta boy.”

he spreads his fingers through your hair slowly, watching your nervous reaction with amusement, eyes glinting in the darkness of the empty office. 

it always ended up like this. he would drink, lose the last bit of restraint sobriety kept over him, and you would find yourself at a total loss of any ability to stand up for yourself.

he leans in, and you grimace at the hint of whiskey on his tongue. you never _could_ stand the taste of alcohol. you thought back to a memory you had of wilbur and fundy joking with you, saying you’d get used to the taste once you got older. he kisses you, and suddenly, for some odd reason, you seriously doubt that prognosis. 

his lips leave yours, moving up your jaw and into the crook of your neck. he mutters your name again in a low voice that sends a confusing swirl of emotions into your gut. the skin on your neck buzzes slightly with wetness. 

“that’s right, baby, open up for me…”

if your friends in manberg thought the booming, authoritative voice he put on for his presidential speeches was domineering, they should hear him like this. much quieter, much deeper, yet just as capable at making you question every personal belief you’ve ever had. at least that’s how you felt about it.

his hips press into yours, forcing you to lean a hand on the desk behind you to support yourself. one of his hands runs up your shirt, while the other fumbles to undo its buttons. once he has access, he begins to suck and bite at your chest, leaving fiery sensations wherever his mouth travels. you do your best to muffle the small whines it elicits from you.

he undoes both of your belts messily, and for some reason your mind wanders back to the argument you had with wilbur and tommy in the tunnels of pogtopia a week prior. a “yes-man.” that’s what wilbur had called you. a person incapable of saying no to anyone. a fucking doormat.

he only notices the wetness around your eyes many moments after he had started moving into you roughly. he reaches up a hand to your cheek, and you let a few sounds escape you. he curses. you can tell he’s getting close.

and then, as always, comes the litany of meaningless words that leave deep fissures within you.

“you’re so good to me, tubbo-”  
“you don’t know what you do to me-“  
“you kill me, you just-“  
“fuck- so good to me-”

he comes down slowly, leaving you shaking and trying to recover from the raw emotions that rip through you. 

the main feeling you’re left with is shame. shame for the cowardice he brings out in you so easily. each and every touch of his skin against yours is a reminder of that cowardice. 

because you know, at the end of the day, you _can_ drive your stinger though him. you _can_ retaliate. you _can_ make his skin crawl and redden with histamines, send off the alarm pheromones, defend yourself the only way you know how and leave an aching thorn in his side until the day he kicks it. 

but you don’t. 

when you finally find yourself alone in the messy office, you pull yourself off the desk and start to button up your shirt. maybe you’d start construction of that apiary you’ve been thinking about tomorrow. or keep working on your underground library. you sigh. the more important thing to do would be to start drafting your speech for the upcoming festival the cabinet has been planning. manberg needed their secretary of state after all, didn’t they? 

you smile tiredly. you’re almost looking forward to it.


End file.
